


Put Out the Light

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Anders love each other, but sometimes love just isn't enough. The relationship dissolves despite their best efforts, and it's mutual.</p><p>Written in response to <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8832.html?thread=34363776#t34363776">a prompt on the Dragon Age Kink Meme</a>, requesting 'Hawke/Anders Pre-Act III Break-up Fic'.</p><p>  <i>Prompt Summary: Everything good comes to an end. Hawke doesn't laugh and Anders doesn't smile anymore. Hawke is cold as ice after the death of his/her mother, and Anders is more obsessed than ever with his manifesto and freeing the mages. Everyone sees it, including Hawke and Anders. Any class of Hawke, and, for the sake of the greatest amount of angst, let's say that Bethany AND Carver are dead.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a repost of a previously-deleted work, with some minor editing and rewriting.

The distance between them had not reared its ugly head without warning, like a beast to be vanquished or an evil to be banished whence it came; It had fallen upon them gradually, lurking in the shadows, waiting in the spaces between breaths that had once been filled with bright, fond gazes and desperate, fervent touches, patiently biding its time like a secret, silent dagger in the dark.

The sex was still good—that had never been the issue—but even that had changed between them, though it had less to do with the act itself and more to do with _everything else_. Something that had begun as a partnership, a commitment, a joining of goals and dreams and lives and hearts... had somehow dissolved into just one more method of running away.

The last straw was not an explosion, or an argument, or much of anything at all. It was eerily calm, just the deafening silence in Hawke's bedroom late one night, a silence deep and dark and strong enough to rattle the walls—and his heart along with them.

It was late, and Anders still had not come to bed—he was still up with his new lovers, a candle and an inkwell—not that Hawke was really expecting or wanting much else. The bedroom fireplace had burned itself out, leaving the room was still and cold, the smell of spent ashes lingering in the air. It had been almost three years since the death of his mother, since she had left him to rejoin the rest of their family. Father, Bethany, Carver—and now, even Mother—they had all left him. He hoped only that they were together now, that there was some reward in death after all their hardships in life.

He still could not banish the images of his mother from his head; horrifying shades of her plagued his sleep and haunted his dreams. Sometimes, voices spoke to him with words he recognized as hers, with lips that matched her smile, and he never could quite tell if the demons in his head were ones of his own making, or not. Every other misfortune that had befallen him seemed to be of his own making, so it only felt natural to accept that these ones were, as well.

If only he had refused to stay in Kirkwall; if only he had refused Gamlen's offer; if only he had refused to embark on Bartrand's expedition; if only he hadn't refused Anders' help in the Deep Roads; if only he had just left Bethany at home. It was his fault, all of it. It all fell on him, and his choices.

They had been the reason for everything he had done—everything he had _tried_ to do—but now, they were gone.

And he was alone in his bed, in his cold, dark room, thinking back on the blur of events that the last few weeks had melted into, trying to recall the exact moment he had lost all hope.


	2. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clinging to something that is falling apart rarely ends well.

"You still have Anders," Isabela had helpfully reminded Hawke a week earlier at the Hanged Man, where she and Varric were treating him to a night of feeling sorry for himself and drowning his worries at the bottom of a mug. Or several mugs, by that point of the evening. "Ask him to show you the electricity thing, it'll bring you right back around, I promise." 

He had laughed bitterly at that, nearly choking on his drink before slamming it on the table and snapping dismissively. "That... area of my life is perfectly adequate, thank you." 

"And that area of anybody's life should never be 'adequate', sweetness," Isabela replied. " _Especially_ yours."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Isabela," Hawke warned, with what little friendly patience he still possessed. He knew she was just trying to distract him, to do something to shake him loose from the funk he had fallen into, but she was edging close to dangerous territory. The two of them had always been able to go back and forth at each other like this before, but this time Hawke was simply just not in the mood. There was too much weighing on his mind and on his heart for flirty banter to help with this problem, even from Isabela.

"But satisfaction brought it back," she purred playfully in his ear, not heeding the warning seriously, pushing forward with her usual sort of response. It failed to achieve the desired effect. Instead of relaxing or laughing or harmlessly flirting back, Hawke suddenly shoved his chair back, nearly knocking her over in the process, and stormed past Varric and out of the Hanged Man without saying another word.

"Now _that's_ a first," Isabela murmured, puzzled and dismayed at her failure. "He's never been the sensitive sort. Especially about that. You should have seen the time he came to me, asking about—"

"You're barking up the wrong tree this time, Rivaini," Varric cut her off before she could divulge any more of Hawke's intimate personal details. Normally, he would have been all ears for gossip, but he was concerned about Hawke's moodiness, and it just did not feel like the right time or place.

"Is that so?" Isabela looked mildly stunned, and then smiled invitingly. "Come on, Varric, don't leave me hanging."

"Hawke and Blondie are just having some... domestic issues," Varric replied.

"The kind that can't be solved with a few glasses of wine and a table with very sturdy legs, I take it?" Isabela looked vaguely disappointed.

"You said it, not me," Varric shrugged, and sighed, staring at Hawke's empty chair.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hawke rocked himself roughly against Anders, pinning his slender torso, leaving him jackknifed at an angle between the desk and the wall as the heft of their combined weight shook the sturdy legs of the writing table in his den.

He had burst into the room only a few moments earlier, agitated and incensed—uncharacteristically so. He smelled strongly of alcohol, but his gait was steady and he did not appear to be excessively drunk. Much to Anders' completely surprise, he wordlessly walked straight over to the table and cleared its surface with one wide, angry sweep of his arm, knocking books and papers and the inkwell to the floor, not caring about the mess in the slightest. Before Anders could turn and get angry, or ask what in the world had gotten into him, Hawke's mouth was on his, kissing him hard and hot and heavy. The inside of Hawke's mouth was slick, sour from ale and whiskey, and Anders breathed in the scent of it, kissing him back with equal abandon.

He stood for better leverage to lean into the kiss, but Hawke had immediately pushed him backward, the backs of his thighs smacking hard against the edge of the table. By the time he had managed to hoist himself up on top of it, Hawke was pushing his legs apart, groping for the length of half-erect cock that was already tenting the front of Anders' worn trousers.

Before Anders had much time to think about it, his coat had been hastily torn off, his shirt pushed up and tugged over his head, his trousers shoved down and left carelessly bunched and hanging off the end of one still-booted foot. His body was pressed hard beneath Hawke's, sandwiched firmly between Hawke's body, the desk, and the wall with his knees shoved back almost to his ears.

Hawke was clearly not wasting any time—there was nothing remotely gentle in his touch—but Anders found he could hardly bring himself to care after one saliva-slick finger slipped neatly inside him, followed by a second, and then a third. He pushed back against the wall, screwing his hips down against Hawke's hard, probing fingers, moaning sharply when the bump of a knuckle brushed against a spot that nearly made him see stars.

Hawke's teeth scraped at his lips and grazed against his tongue, drawing it hungrily into his own mouth, urging Anders to reciprocate, though he hardly needed the urging. He responded enthusiastically, exploring the inside of Hawke's mouth with deft, eager sweeps of his tongue, clawing at the edges of the desk for purchase as his cock throbbed between them, sending shivers down his spine every time Hawke's body shifted against him.

Somewhere in the wordless, breathless shuffle, Hawke had managed to rid himself of his trousers, withdrawing his fingers and using that hand to grip his own cock, pressing its ruddy, engorged tip against Anders' ass, nudging at the slick, swollen ring of muscle.

"I don't have anything," he muttered against Anders' mouth, his voice strained and hoarse. It had been long enough since the last time they had sex that rough and hasty penetration risked posing a problem, but all of their 'supplies' were currently in the bedroom, since after more than two years of domesticity they rarely did it anywhere else anymore, and even when they did, it was never like this.

"Just do it," Anders mumbled back, punctuating his response with a thrust of his hips, as much as he was able to move them from the way Hawke had him pinned. A little pain would hardly be the end of the world, and it seemed like ages since Hawke had touched him in a way that came even remotely close to the way he was right now.

Hawke grunted in wordless assent, not requiring any further reassurance, still gripping his cock in one hand and taking hold of Anders' hip in the other to brace himself, nudging in past the initial tightness until Anders relaxed and then tensed again. Anders hissed sharply, arching his back and scrabbling at the table, flexing his hips upward. As soon as Hawke was buried deep enough for his own satisfaction, he pulled himself back, squeezing Anders' hips so hard it hurt before thrusting forward again, hard and fast, the table thumping rigidly against the wall with the force of it.

"Andraste's... flaming... arse..." Anders groaned, his breath hot and wet between ragged, broken gasps. Hawke repeated the maneuver, and Anders gave a soft, strangled cry, his voice shifting pitch as words failed him. Hawke leaned forward in response, hovering over him, and planted both palms firmly against the wall, rocking against Anders as he moved. His thrusts fell into a steady rhythm as he propped himself up against the wall, his thick, hard biceps shifting under his softer flesh.

Anders' own muscles strained and burned, and he clung to the sides of the table to keep his arms from flailing about, blindly reaching for something to dig his fingers into. He could feel dark bruises rising on his hips where Hawke had clutched him, felt himself stretched and filled each time Hawke rocked and thrust against him. Droplets of thick, sticky precome oozed slowly from the tip of his cock and he fought the urge to touch himself, waiting for Hawke to finish first before bringing an end to the ache that was building steadily in his groin.

Hawke's motions suddenly grew erratic, became faster and more desperate as a dark, florid flush spread down his face and neck; Anders could tell he would not last much longer. Hawke's dark eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his face in knots as tiny droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead, running together and growing heavy enough to drip down in hot, salty splashes against Anders' neck and chest.

A hard, wrenching groan escaped Hawke's throat as his body drooped and his muscles twitched, his heavy, sweat-slick torso slumping against Anders' chest between his strained, wide-spread legs, trapping Anders' painfully swollen prick helplessly between them. Hawke gave one final, forceful thrust as he felt himself spend, shuddering and gasping for breath. His leg muscles trembled, straining to support his weight and keep him from sliding to the floor.

With Hawke's inert body draped across him, Anders slipped one hand into the hot, damp space between them, stroking himself to completion as Hawke heaved sharp, shallow breaths against his neck. With a deep, exhausted groan Hawke shifted his weight, sliding his hand down, covering Anders' slightly smaller one with his own. The addition of Hawke's touch was all it took for Anders to reach his climax, and a wave of desperate, aching release washed over him as he came between their entwined fingers.

They lay tangled together on the desk for some time, despite the discomfort of their respective positions. It had been a very long time—months, at least—since they had stayed together after sex without immediately turning away from one another or getting up to busy themselves with other tasks. Their current embrace was both comforting and disconcerting, and Hawke felt a wave of nausea rise in his stomach that was not entirely due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed that evening.

There had been pleasure in what they had just done, but very little affection, and almost no tenderness at all. After all this time their bodies were familiar territory, and they knew how to please one another in bed, but it had begun to feel as though it might be all that remained between them.

With that thought, the emptiness gnawing at Hawke's insides overwhelmed him.

Hawke had come home feeling unsettled, desperate, anxious—searching for something. He had been looking for a way to fill the hole that was growing wider and darker inside his heart, that was eating him from the inside out, no matter how he tried to fight it. Everything he had lost over the years had taken a piece of him with it, and until now, he had at least been sure and confident that having Anders by his side would keep that darkness—that _emptiness_ —at bay.

He lay there on the desk against Anders, listening to the beat of his heart inside his chest, feeling the heat of Anders' body under and around him, still half-buried inside him after spending himself there. Anders had welcomed him without protest, welcomed his embraces and his kisses, had welcomed Hawke inside himself. They had done everything that he thought lovers were supposed to do—they had done everything right.

But none of it felt right. Nothing did, not anymore.

Hawke's body was open, but his heart was closed, and he didn't know how to open it up again.

Or if that was even possible.

Anders shifted gently beneath him, reaching up and silently stroking Hawke's hair with familiar calloused fingertips. It was an affectionate gesture, one of comfortable fondness, meant in the most earnest, honest way. But there, in the depths of his heart, with Hawke slumped against him and their heartbeats slowing in unison, he could feel the distance grow between them, spreading like a sickness that even his strongest magic could not heal.


	3. Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignoring your problems doesn't make them go away.

They avoided each other for three days after that.

Anders spent long days working in his clinic, and long nights sitting up with his manifesto. He occasionally dozed on a cot in the clinic when patients were scarce, and napped in a chair or on the sofa in Hawke's den when he could catch a moment's rest, but getting an actual full night's sleep. Thoughts that used to bring him peace—the thought of sleeping and waking at Hawke's side, the thought of finding comfort in his arms—now just seemed to fall flat. Between his own rampant anxiety and the fervor that Justice added to everything he thought and felt, sometimes he wondered if he would ever be at peace again.

He had not been able to bring himself to sleep in Hawke's bed again after their last... encounter, and the fact that he still considered it _Hawke's bed_ and not _their bed_ after all this time crashed down on him suddenly, with almost physical force, leaving behind a sharp, lingering ache somewhere deep inside his chest.

Hawke had spent his days sleeping off nightly hangovers, drinking the worst stuff in the tiniest hole-in-the-wall places in Lowtown, places that made the Hanged Man seem grandiose in comparison. He avoided the Hanged Man; He didn't want to talk about anything, especially not his feelings or his relationship, and even though Isabela and Varric and maybe even Merrill would try to help, it wasn't what he wanted. Honestly, he wasn't sure what he wanted, but he knew that talking was definitely not it.

He woke alone each morning sprawled out on his sheets, with Anders' side of the bed completely untouched. On the fourth day he woke well after noon and rolled himself over onto Anders' empty spot, burying his face in the cool, fluffy pillows. They felt wonderful on his face, so much cleaner and crisper than his own stale, sweat-damp pillows, and the feel of them rubbing against his cheeks and forehead soothed the pounding ache in his head, just a bit. And they still smelled like Anders—warm and spicy and cool and medicinal all blending together with the scent of clean sweat and the lingering aroma of musty sewers that never quite seemed to wash off—even though Anders had not actually slept there in days. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part—Hawke was unsure of how to tell the difference, anymore.

Eventually, Hawke managed to roll himself out of bed, massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers in an effort to relieve the lingering remnants of his headache, which had gone from sharp, skull-splitting pain to a low, dull throbbing sensation. It was an improvement, at the very least. His tongue felt thick and swollen, and he was absolutely parched. He spied a tray sitting in the corner on the table beside his journal—Orana must have come in and out without waking him, she could be quiet as a dormouse sometimes—and pushed himself up off the bed to take several deep, greedy gulps straight from the water pitcher he found sitting there, not bothering to pour it into the nearby cup first. It was lukewarm, and must have been sitting out for several hours, but it was wet and he was thirsty, and it soothed the dryness in his throat.

He slammed the pitcher back down on the tray when he had drunk his fill, panting as he wiped at a few stray rivulets that had dripped down his chin. He felt a little more human after that, a little less disoriented. He padded across the room to a large armoire, peeling off his shirt and tossing it lazily on the floor beside him. He reeked of liquor and smoke and whatever other unsavory smells generally lingered in the atmosphere around Lowtown, but he wasn't in the mood for a bath. He turned to look at himself in the mirror on the wall, and for a moment, scarcely recognized the man he saw staring back at him.

His eyes were dark and bloodshot, and there was dark scruff around the edges of his beard, which badly needed trimming. There seemed to be more lines in his forehead, more creases at the corners of his eyes than he remembered being there before, scattered amongst the battle scars. He tried to remember when he'd first come to Hightown after buying back the estate, the first time he had ever looked in this mirror.

That man was long gone, along with Carver, and Bethany, and Mother. Only, he wasn't truly with them, he was stuck somewhere limbo, in the space between here and there, wherever 'there' actually was. And all that remained was the shell he saw in the mirror, struggling to make sense of it all for just one more day.

He absentmindedly stripped off the rest of his clothes and changed into a clean, respectable pair of pants and a fresh shirt, heading for the bedroom door as he fumbled with the laces. He flung the bedroom door open and called loudly down the hall for Orana, whose tiny, kittenish footsteps came running down the hallway and up the stairs almost immediately.

"You called, Master?"

He had long since stopped trying to break Orana's habit of calling him 'Master'. After the hundredth or so repetition of, "Just 'Hawke', _please_ ," he decided it simply wasn't worth the trouble.

Hawke tugged at the cuffs on his shirt, smoothing out a stubborn wrinkle. "I'd like you to change the sheets," he said, nodding toward the bed, "and the blankets, and pillows. All of it. Please."

He paused for a moment after that, simply staring at the bed as Orana set to work pulling back the blankets and sheets and gathering them up to carry to the laundry. It was an odd request, she thought--not that she hadn't been asked to change the sheets more than usual in the past, but those requests had always been fairly specific and expected, on mornings after her master and his partner spent the night in the bedroom with the door tightly shut and carefully locked. She'd pressed her ear timidly to the door on one of those nights, out of curiosity, and had quickly realized why a change of sheets was requested the following morning.

She had left them to their privacy after that. They seemed to have little enough time for it, and it wasn't her place to intrude, especially after her new master had been so kind to her.

But this time was different. They hadn't spent the night together, and she'd seen Hawke sleeping there alone, late into the morning. In any case, she set about her business, and thought that perhaps after she'd laundered the sheets and blankets that she'd sprinkle them with lavender to make them extra nice. Even she'd noticed that her master looked tired recently, and thought that maybe he could use something pleasant to come home to.

"Thank you, Orana," Hawke murmured quietly, almost underneath his breath as the girl skittered away with her arms full of bed linen.

She brushed past him in a flash of skirts and sheets, and for just a moment, Hawke caught Anders' scent in the rush of air that swept past him, but in the time it took to draw in one more breath, it was gone.

Or perhaps he'd just imagined it in the first place.


	4. Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things that are broken cannot always be fixed.

Hawke spent the afternoon aimlessly wandering the streets of Hightown, admiring the gardens and watching the bustle of activity in the market without really thinking about it, burdened by the weight of his own stormy thoughts. Later, when the sun began to set and exhaustion began to settle over him, partially quieting the steady stream of unpleasantness crashing around inside his skull, he trudged down to the Undercity to see Anders, who was still, as predicted, working in his clinic.

"This really can't wait for another night?" Anders sighed, not looking up from the length of clean bandages he was rolling. His hands worked deftly, with a practiced, familiar swiftness, and when he finished with that roll, he placed it in a tray by his feet, and picked up another strip from the pile beside him.

"Varric wants everyone at the Hanged Man tonight," Hawke replied, standing with his arms crossed as he watched Anders work. "For drinks, and a round of Wicked Grace. For old times' sake, he said."

"Personally, I think he just wants to see someone else lose to Fenris again," Anders mused, finishing the roll and leaning down to pick up another. "I still owe the bloody elf from the last time we played, and that was last year."

"I told you I'd take care of that," Hawke's voice grew tight.

"I'll let him enjoy lording it over me for a little while longer," Anders flashed a wry smile. "It's not like he's got much else going for him."

"Are you coming, then?" Hawke tried to steer the conversation back on track. "You've been down here all day."

"I'm _busy_ , love," Anders replied, a touch more sharply than he'd meant to. "I've got so much to do here in the clinic, and then a... meeting, later."

Hawke did not ask what Anders meant by 'meeting'; he knew it was a catch-all term for his activities with the mage underground. Sometimes it really did involve actual meetings, secretly getting together to plan their next rescue mission into the Gallows, and sometimes it meant actually going into the Gallows itself and executing those plans.

He knew how important it was to Anders to do this, to help as many people as he possibly could in any way that he could, so he had never once breathed a word of dissent, never once asked him not to go. He knew it was dangerous, but so was practically everything they did these days, including simply existing.

He had gone along with Anders once in the past at his request, but never again, not after the sidelong glances the other mages had given him. He had been the only person there without magical ability, and between that and his connections with the City Guard and the nobility, they had been reluctant to trust him, even with Anders vouching for his loyalty.

Hawke had been all but useless at that meeting, felt like little more than an unwanted outsider, and had never gone back again after that. Anders seemed to understand his unease, and did not push him, though Hawke could tell that he was disappointed whenever he left for one of his meetings alone. He had tried to support Anders in every other way that he could, both as a partner and as a lover, but as time went on it felt more and more difficult to keep up with everything.

Everything just seemed to be falling through his fingers, and it felt like the harder he tried to hold on, the more it all just slipped away.

"I see," Hawke finally said, trying to hold back the wave of petty jealousy he felt rising up inside him. It passed quickly, dropping back down in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight, leaving him cold. "I'll leave you to it, then."

He turned and headed for the door, swallowing against the frustrating tightness in his throat. A moment later, he felt the unexpected touch of long, cool, slender fingers grasping at his wrist, and heard Anders reluctantly asking him to wait.

Hawke spun on his heel and came face-to-face with Anders, who looked quite careworn and tired, he noticed--even more so than usual. His stomach flip-flopped at Anders' touch.

"You could... come with me." Anders' voice was soft, almost plaintive as he made his offer, tightening his grip on Hawke's wrist.

Hawke felt frozen in place, not knowing how to respond. Anders hadn't asked him for anything like that in... years, now. It was surprising to hear such a request again, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Anders' way of reaching out to him in the only way he really knew how, trying to bridge the gap that had somehow grown between them. He thought about agreeing, about doing his best to go along and prove that he was trustworthy, to prove that he still cared, but images of Quentin flashed inside his head, bouncing images of blood and death and the mutilated body of his mother spread out across his lap, smiling at him as she died. The thought of seeing another scene like that again on the floor of a templar jail if Anders were to get caught and killed—or worse, made tranquil—was just too much for him bear. Another loss like that would end him; he was barely holding on as it was.

He wanted to make things right. He was trying; they both were. But it was just too little, too late.

"I'm sorry," he replied numbly and without elaboration, his voice thick and uneven, wholly unable to put words to the feelings that were tearing him apart—tearing _them_ apart. He plucked Anders' fingers loose from his wrist and turned as fast as his legs could carry him, exiting the clinic without another word.

Anders stood silently in the doorway and watched him walk away, the light of the clinic's iconic lantern flickering down on him, casting shadows on his face, on his clothes, on the floor. He stayed there for several minutes, staring out into the dark, stuffy caverns until even Hawke's silhouette and shadow had completely disappeared from view.

He turned his head and took a long, tired look across his clinic, this thing that he had built and maintained and shed blood and sweat for. His eyes fell on the unrolled pile of bandages sitting there and he sighed to himself, leaned back against the door frame, and closed his eyes, giving himself a moment of weakness to let the day's exhaustion wash over him. The hot swirl of emotion that he knew to be Justice roiled around restlessly in the pit of his stomach, burned in his blood with every heartbeat.

Wearily, he opened his eyes, rubbing at his face with the heel of his palm, shoving the exhaustion aside. He thought about leaving it all behind, even if just for one night, and running after Hawke before it was too late, but he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. There was still far too much to do.

And then he reached up to the lantern shining above the entrance to his clinic, sighed in resignation, and put out the light.


	5. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lighter moment in the darkness.

It was dark by the time Hawke reached the Hanged Man, alone.

Loud, raucous laughter and thick, smoky, ale-scented air hit him like a wall as he threw open the familiar door. He welcomed the assault to his senses, allowed himself to be overwhelmed for a moment by the heat and sounds and smells as he stepped inside, letting the door slam heavily behind him, though he barely heard it close over the chaotic din.

Everything about the room was comfortingly familiar. There was a fresh wet spot on the bloodstained floorboards a dozen or so feet away; Corff stood in the corner behind the bar, wringing out a filthy, wet mop. Dirty, sunburned, scruffy miners and laborers sat at the rough, splintered tables, pouring the fruits of their hard-earned coppers down their throats from the mouths of well-worn mugs.

Hawke strode quickly past them, plodding up the loud, creaking stairs to Varric's collection of rooms, which looked considerably cleaner and more cheerful than the rest of the dim, dusty tavern. Some of the patrons paused to stare at him as he passed, mostly with gestures of varying degrees of respect, though a few gave him darker looks, with darker sentiments lurking silently behind them. He made a passing wave in return, trying to at least keep up a polite show, even if his mood was in the gutter.

"Hawke!" Varric's loud, jovial voice broke through the cacophony of the barroom. He looked up from his table, which was crowded with a sea of familiar faces. "It's about time you and Blondie showed up—wait. Where's your better half?"

Hawke tried to smile, but only succeeded halfway, and made up for it with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders as he approached the table, sliding into an empty spot beside Varric. "Off liberating mages with _his_ better half, I imagine." He fought to keep his tone light, but the words still managed to settle a little more heavily than he would have liked.

"That's one too many halves, you know," Varric replied, keeping his tone equally light as he amiably nudged Hawke with his shoulder, though the concern in his voice was still evident enough. He was feeling Hawke out, testing the waters.

"Let's not open that can of worms tonight, Varric," Hawke lowered his voice and sighed despite himself, as tiny little cracks began to form in the defensive smile he had managed to scrape together.

"Fair enough," Varric nodded, slapping him on the back once for good measure before catching sight of Norah, and gesturing for a round of drinks. Hawke appreciated the lack of stubborn pressing for details, the respect for his need to just let things slide for now. Varric always asked, frequently persuaded, and often charmed—but never _pried_ , a trait that served their friendship rather well over the years.

"But... which half is Anders, then, the top or the bottom?" Merrill's sweet, lilting voice chimed in from across the table, picking up on all the wrong bits and pieces of the conversation, as usual.

Beside her, Isabela laughed, loud and sultry. A playful grin spread across her lips. "If **I** had to wager, **I'd** say... _bottom_."

Merrill leaned in closer to Isabela, intrigued, and entirely forgetting to cover the cards in her hand, leaving them fanned out, face-up for all to see. "How can you tell? Have you ever actually _seen_ his bottom? Even under the coat, he's all trousers and boots."

"Were you _peeking_ , kitten?" Isabela's eyebrows perked in interest, her amusement at the fact that Merrill had completely missed the point instantly superseded by her unexpected response.

"What? Me? No! Never!" Merrill's face flushed as she stuttered. "Maybe a little. Just once, when he was glowing, and I—"

Fenris interrupted Merrill's babbling, loudly clearing his throat and tapping one gauntleted hand on the table, catching both women's attention and directing it back toward their game. Hawke rubbed anxiously at his temples before shooting a relieved, grateful look Fenris' way. It wasn't the subject matter that bothered Hawke so much as the _timing_ of it all, but as he stopped to think about it, it seemed like the timing for _everything_ was off, lately. Nothing seemed to fit together properly anymore.

He looked around the room, around the table. Fenris was at the end, studying his cards, with Varric leaning over from beside him, offering advice—not that he needed it. Fenris' luck at Wicked Grace was unparalleled. Further down, Merrill was whispering something in Isabela's ear, and the two of them laughed.

Hawke watched them intently, listening to the sounds of animated chatter and mirthful laughter. He set his hands down on the table, rubbing at the rough grain of the wood thinking quietly to himself that it had been a very long time since he had last felt happy and carefree enough to laugh like that.

"You want in, Champion?" Varric's warm voice snapped Hawke's attention away from his distracting thoughts.

"Not if Fenris is dealing," Hawke quipped, shoving the unpleasant thoughts to the back of his mind, something that was becoming more and more frequent, lately. He was aware of it, but self-awareness really wasn't helping the situation. If anything, it made it worse. Some days, the thought of ignorance really did seem like bliss, but it simply wasn't an option.

"Spoilsport," Isabela frowned as Varric picked up the cards to deal. "At least let him win enough coin off you to fix the holes in his roof that Aveline keeps hounding him about."

"That's a little ambitious, Rivaini," Varric laughed as he divvied up the cards. "It'd be easier to just knock the place down and start over."

"In the Alienage, I use pots to keep the leaks from dripping on the floorboards. What do you do when it rains, Fenris?" Merrill chirped. "I don't think we could find enough pots for all the holes in your ceiling. It's more holes than ceiling, really."

"I get wet," Fenris replied, dryly.

"You should take that act on the road, Elf," Varric cut in. "The Broody Comedian. You'd make a fortune."

"You could open for me," Fenris offered, completely deadpan. "Braid your chest hair for the audience, perhaps."

"Careful, Elf. It's a tempting offer. I might take you up on it," Varric flashed a charming grin in Fenris' direction.

"Oh, get a room, you two," Isabela teased.

Merrill frowned. "But we're _in_ his room."

Everyone laughed at that—even Fenris managed a low, gruff chuckle—and Hawke savored the feeling of sitting there and laughing with the rest of his friends, even though his voice sounded strange inside his own ears, like it belonged to someone else, like he was only along for the ride, observing from somewhere outside himself. It was still preferable to the alternative.

"Speaking of Aveline," Isabela turned the subject back around, "where is the lady-shaped battering ram?"

"Not coming," Varric said, a touch of disappointment in his voice. "She's on duty."

"On duty or _on duty_?" Isabela replied, suggestively. "Not that I can blame her, with that guardsman of hers."

The ambient chatter around the table began to fade into the background, melting together and becoming completely unintelligible as Hawke's thoughts began to wander, again. He wondered where Anders was, exactly what he was doing at that moment—even if he had a good idea of what went on in general, he really didn't know all the greater, intimate details of Anders' goings-on with the resistance.

Suddenly felt a sick sense of guilt for not going with him. Anders had opened himself up, made an effort to repair the damage that had somehow spread between them when they weren't looking, weren't thinking, weren't paying attention... and Hawke had rejected the offer, spurned the effort.

It was too late to turn back and change his mind, but the least he could do was try to apologize, or repair the damage. He still wasn't entirely certain why he had turned away, why he had _run_ away. It was not that he didn't want to be with Anders—he did. It was not that he didn't support Anders' cause—he did. His feelings may not have been **clear** , but they definitely existed. He simply felt... useless, disconnected from the people he had been so close to for the last several years, people he had built his life and loves and hopes around.

"Hawke. Hawke? _Hawke!_ " The third reiteration of Fenris calling his name was what finally brought Hawke back around. His body jerked in his chair, his head snapping up to attention. Four pairs of eyes stared back at him, their gazes flickering with varying degrees of concern.

And suddenly, it was just too much. He'd tried to lose himself in a bit of distraction, had even almost managed to do so. But he just _could not_ shake that distance he felt spreading out around him— _from him—_ like an aura of repulsion, keeping everyone and everything at arm's length.

"I should go," he said, quietly, laying his cards down on the table, pushing back his chair, which scraped loudly against the floor. "I just... remembered something."

It was not a _complete_ lie, Hawke told himself, and he nearly believed it.

"Do what you need to, Hawke," Varric replied, his tone rich and warm and full and sympathetic. He nodded his head toward Hawke, and for a moment they shared a look, one that gave him the opportunity to breathe, that made him feel like someone understood, even just a little, and even if he, himself, did not.

Words of gratitude were on his lips, but he swallowed them and simply nodded silently instead, secretly afraid his voice would not hold steady. He managed a tight, terse, 'good night' before turning and leaving his table full of friends behind, hoping that when he finally got back home, that Anders would be there.


	6. Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Airing out wounds, both old and new.

The estate was quiet when Hawke returned home. Bodahn and Sandal and Orana had turned in for the night, but the fireplaces had all been freshly stoked, and the lights had been left on for him in the main entryway. Hawke smiled wryly to himself; At least there was no need to worry about tripping and breaking his neck in the dark.

Anders was not there.

He had expected that, really, even if he had hoped differently. He shucked off his coat and his boots and briefly entertained the thought of waiting up, but the idea did not sit well. He was unsure of what he truly wanted, or what he would even say, and the thought of waiting up all that time to simply go their separate ways as usual was more than he thought he could stand, at least tonight. He had deliberately shied away from talking the last several times they had been together, even when Anders made the effort and tried to initiate a conversation. There was so much that Hawke desperately needed to get off his chest, to rid himself of so that he could find some peace, but every time he tried to do it, his throat slammed shut and he just _could not_ seem to choke out the words.

He had to do something, though. He couldn't go on like this. _They_ couldn't go on like this.

Hawke padded quietly down the dimly-lit hallway toward his bedroom; Maybe he would feel more clearheaded in the morning, after some rest. He had not planned on being home this early, or this sober, though, and the idea of sleeping without the haze of alcohol to dull his thoughts was an unsettling one at the moment, so he made a detour to the den.

He reached for a decanter of rich, sweet Antivan brandy—a gift from Isabela—that sat atop the mantel, and felt the heat from the fireplace brush across his skin. It did little to warm his insides, though he told himself the brandy would take care of that soon enough.

And it did.

After a shot or two—or maybe three or four, he had lost count by that point—Hawke placed the stopper back on the bottle and the bottle back on the mantel, sighing and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, rubbing roughly as the brandy's warm flush spread through him. At least now, he could try and sleep.

His limbs felt heavy as he headed back toward his bedroom, but he was still clearheaded enough to notice the door to his mother's room slightly ajar as he passed by. That made him stop, and he held his breath for a moment, wondering why the door would be open at all, especially at this hour. Even though he walked right by it several times a day, he had not actually been inside that room since directly after his mother's death. He had instructed Bodahn and Sandal and Orana to leave it be, as well, and they never seemed to question it or disobey him.

_If that dog's gotten himself in here and made a mess of things—_ Hawke growled to himself, swinging the door the rest of the way open and stepping just inside the doorway as his heart jumped up into his throat.

But the dog was nowhere to be found; The room was untouched.

Instead of immediately turning around, which is what his head and feet told him to do, Hawke stood there for a moment in the doorway, listening to the soft, painful pleading coming from his heart, instead.

The room was cold, and dark, and covered in a layer of dust—the accumulation of almost three years' time. Everything was just as she had left it that night, he hadn't been able to bring himself to touch or move or throw away anything. Her bed, her clothes, her cosmetics, her perfume, they were all still there, waiting for her to return.

But he knew the truth—that she was never coming back.

_I should go..._ he told himself, even as he stepped further into the room, spying an embroidered handkerchief on his mother's dressing table. He ran his fingers over the dust-covered bit of linen and picked it up, not really sure what he was thinking except that maybe it would help to hold something of hers again, that perhaps all that remained of her still lingered there, somehow, and that if he could bring himself to touch it, he could still feel her.

That he could still feel something, anything at all.

He lost himself in the moment, closing his eyes and clutching the scrap of cloth tightly in his hand, so tightly he could hardly feel his own fingers anymore. He didn't feel the tears that slid gently down his cheeks, or the overwhelming tightness in his throat and in his chest that threatened to choke him.

He failed to notice the shadows that flickered suddenly in the hallway, or even to hear Anders' heavy boots on the floor, coming up behind him.

"Is everything all right?" Anders' soft voice was heavy with concern, and the sound of it brought Hawke back to himself. He didn't jump in surprise, or spin around on his heel, or even speak an answer—he simply opened his eyes and breathed.

He couldn't bring himself to answer that question. Admitting the truth felt too much like failure, and adding one more failure on top of everything else was just too much. He knew that any answer he gave would be a lie, and Anders deserved better.

When he finally turned around, his eyes were dry again, and focused at the floor. He could not bring himself to look up, to meet Anders' gaze. It would be full of either pity or sympathy, and at the moment, he could not handle either.

"I should have spent more time with her. I should have... done more." Hawke's words were slow and soft, scarcely louder than a whisper. Speaking too loudly in his dead mother's room seemed wrong, almost... irreverent, somehow.

"You did more than enough. More than most children would. You were a good son, and she was proud of you." Anders took Hawke's tone to heart, and kept his own voice low.

Hawke squeezed his fingers around the handkerchief again, balling them tightly into a fist. "You didn't see the way she sat in that shack in Lowtown, reliving Carver's death over and over again every day for three years." His voice cracked for a moment, but he managed to regain his composure before it broke completely. "You didn't see the look on her face when I came home from the expedition, when I walked through the door without Bethany."

Anders could almost feel the pain and guilt swirling around Hawke, radiating from him like an aura of despair. He deeply regretted the fact that his magic could only heal fleshly wounds, because no matter how much he loved him, the worst of Hawke's damage was simply beyond his reach.

"That was a long time ago. And it wasn't your fault. None of it was," Anders replied. It was a pointless argument, a useless protestation, but he tried anyway.

"She never really got over losing Father. It changed her. She clung to Bethany and Carver, she was so afraid of losing them," Hawke paused and laughed, a laugh of bitter self-derision. "And me, all I ever heard after that was, ' _I see so much of him in you_.' Like I was my father's ghost," Hawke continued, almost oblivious to Anders' presence. Words that he had been keeping bottled up for years poured out in a rush.

"She loved you. Even I could see that. It was just her way of grieving." Anders tried to be comforting, loving, reassuring... but it didn't seem to help. It barely seemed to reach Hawke at all.

"When we left Lothering, we lost everything. All she wanted was to keep the family together. I couldn't even manage that."

As much as Anders wanted to let Hawke pour himself out, to rid himself of the ugly, terrible thoughts and feelings that he had been keeping such tight hold of, he could sense Hawke slipping away from him into some dark, terrible pit of self-loathing, and he was afraid to let him fall completely.

"You tried, Garrett. You did your best," Anders reached out again, hoping it would bring Hawke back from the edge, just enough to be safe.

"You're right," Hawke nodded as he finally looked up, and for a moment, Anders thought he had finally gotten through to him. But Hawke continued, and ask he spoke, Anders' hopes fizzled out cold.

"And that's the problem. _I did my best_ ," Hawke's rush of breath and words became a torrent, and he almost tripped over them in an effort to get them all out in one heavy breath, "and it wasn't good enough. And now I have money and status and a title and a closet full of more fancy shirts that I'll ever be able to wear and this big, empty house with no one left to live in it."

_...with no one left to live in it..._ Hawke's words fell hard on Anders' ears, and cut more deeply than he expected them to. And even though the words did hurt, somehow, the revelation itself hurt more. He looked at Hawke, and took a deep breath.

"You still have me."

That seemed to reach him, and Hawke stood there in front of Anders for a long, wordless moment. The space between them was stiff, charged and tense. The silence rang like bells, echoing off the walls, thundering in their ears.

Hawke's chest gently rose and fell; Anders held his breath.

And then, before Anders could gather up the courage to say or do anything else, Hawke's deep, unsteady voice cut through the stillness and the silence like a knife.

"No, I don't."


	7. Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking up is hard to do.

Anders stood there frozen for a moment in the shadows, biting his tongue, letting Hawke’s words sink in. His first instinct was to lash out; to argue, or protest, or defend himself somehow, as if there was an argument to be won, as if he had something to prove. He forced himself to choke down the defensively bitter, hurtful words on the tip of his tongue, forced himself to breathe again, deep and slow and steady, despite the rapid beating of his heart.

_It’s not an accusation,_ he told himself, closing his eyes with a sigh, seeking refuge in the darkness behind his tired, closed lids until the provocative urges abated, burning off in the temporary heat that rushed through his blood.

When he opened his eyes again, he was calm.

He closed the distance between them, the dim rays of lamplight from the hallway shifting as he moved, bouncing off his face and casting eerie shadows on the floor. He half-expected Hawke to back away, to step aside or brush past him or tell him to stop—to make _some_ protestation against them getting too close—but as Anders drew near, stopping near enough to see him shaking, near enough to feel a rush of hot, ragged breath on his neck, Hawke did not move.

Anders lifted one hand to Hawke’s chest, laying his open palm flat against the smooth, soft fabric of his shirt. His cool, slender fingers pressed down gently, though they warmed quickly from the heat that radiated from Hawke’s body through the thin, finely-woven cloth. His other hand played with the intricate embroidery at Hawke’s collar before sliding deftly between his shirt and skin, stroking lightly at the soft tuft of short, fine hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’m right here,” Anders said, his voice little more than a rustle of air, a silky whisper in the dark, punctuated by the press of his mouth to Hawke’s—just a feather-light brush of his lips, not quite enough to taste.

Hawke’s mind recoiled instantly even though his body did not, and all the hidden stores of guilt and fear he’d been keeping such tight hold of violently broke free, scrabbling and clawing at his insides, silently tearing his guts to shreds. At least, that was what it felt like, though he could not bring himself to put a stop to it or pull away. Anders was being so gentle with him, was trying so very hard to make him feel better, and all Hawke could think about was bolting out of the room and trying to forget every foolish thing he’d done over the last few days, up to and including this very moment.

But he was also lonely, and just too bloody tired to keep running away. So he stayed, standing there like a statue, like a slab of rough, hard stone that even Anders’ soft touches and gentle affection could not seem to quicken. He struggled desperately against the force of his emotions, but he was only one man, and a lonely, desperate, confused one at that, and it was a fight he was undeniably losing.

He leaned hard into the embrace, clutching Anders’ shoulders tightly as he pressed their lips together again, his mother’s linen handkerchief still clenched between his fingers. Anders uttered a small, startled gasp as Hawke poured raw aggression into the kiss, crushing Anders’ mouth against his. Hawke’s mouth was heavy and hot and wet, and Anders moaned against him, slipping his arms around Hawke’s neck and locking them there. Something that barely passed for logic shot through Hawke’s mind as they kissed, told him that perhaps if he tried hard enough, if he wanted it badly enough, if he held on to Anders tightly enough, that maybe he could finally manage to feel something again.

” _I love you_ ,” Hawke gasped, breathless and heated, the words partially muffled in the friction between their lips.

Anders remained quiet, answering Hawke with an indulgent sweep of his tongue, truly not knowing any other way to respond. ‘ _I love you, too_ ,’ was the reflexive reply that lay expectantly on his tongue, the words heavy and thick enough to choke him. It hardly seemed to matter that they were true, he refused to let them spill out. Fear—he _knew_ it was fear, had known the terrible feeling so many times in his life that he could tell without a second thought—kept his hold on himself tight and unforgiving. Trying to pinpoint exactly _what_ he feared, however, was much more difficult, though he clung to the certainty that it had absolutely nothing to do with wanting or not wanting, caring or not caring, loving or not loving,

“I know,” was all that he could manage in the end, his voice little more than a low, hushed whisper.

He did not doubt Hawke. He believed the truth of his desperate, needy plea, and the sincerity of his equally desperate, needy embrace, but the soft-spoken, heavily pained, ‘ _No, I don’t_ ’, Hawke had uttered just minutes earlier was all that he could think about, all that he could hear ringing in his ears—despite the ‘ _I love you_ ,’ that had just come out at him in a rush, hot and heavy and somehow, unexpectedly hurtful as it fell from Hawke’s lips. Instead of trying to stop and talk about it, to pause and regroup themselves like he knew they should, Anders pressed his body closer, nudging Hawke backward with small, shuffling steps until his back and shoulders were up against the wall.

Hawke’s body was unexpectedly compliant—his aggression seemed to be focused on Anders’ mouth, bleeding out in a series of hard, hungry kisses that ground soft lips and tongues against sharp teeth. Anders slowly unlocked his arms from around Hawke’s neck, his palms and fingertips pressing against his chest and abdomen as they trailed down the front of his body. Anders paused briefly as he reached Hawke’s waist, tugging at the fabric and pulling his shirttails loose, giving himself enough access to slip his hands inside Hawke’s shirt, laying his palms against the firm, muscular planes of his chest and stomach.

Anders heard Hawke’s breathing hitch in his throat as his fingertips traveled upward from his navel, stopping to play along the slightly-raised length of an old battle scar—the last lingering remnants of a wound that Anders remembered healing himself, years ago, long before they had become lovers, and partners. He caressed the scar fondly with gentle, callused fingers, almost as if he were stroking the memory itself, trying to take hold of something that had carelessly slipped so far from his grasp, to rekindle a spark from a time so long past. It worked for a moment, and old thoughts and feelings descended from the dusty, cobwebbed recesses of his memories, just as strong and real as they had ever been. There was the affection and yearning he felt, that he kept pushed so far down inside himself in a desperate attempt to keep it hidden; there was the worry and concern at the severity of Hawke’s injuries; there was the gentle rush of creation magic as it flowed intimately between them, easing Hawke’s pain and staunching the flow of blood, deftly knitting together torn flesh and muscle; there was his irrational fear at the thought of losing him…

As Anders allowed that memory to wash over him, others resurfaced, suddenly and unexpectedly. He had unknowingly opened the floodgates to the innermost recesses of his mind and heart to them, had allowed them through in his search for the long-buried strength of feeling he knew existed within him, the strength that he needed to get through whatever challenge it was he and Hawke were facing. And then, just as suddenly and unexpectedly, he found exactly what he was looking for. They were all laid out bare, those feelings that had sustained him through years of hopelessness and pain; they were right there in front of him, easily within his reach if he could simply find the strength to extend one final bit. The discovery was hollow, however, and in name only, because closeness in proximity did not matter when he knew that they were far too fragile to withstand the contact, like tiny little bubbles of pure, raw emotion—of hope and life and love, and maybe even happiness—that would burst into nothingness the moment he tried to grasp them.

And then, without warning, Anders was abruptly jarred back into reality, torn from the pleasant, dreamlike fog of nostalgia and memory, no longer an arm's length away from what he wanted—what he _needed_ —and roughly brought back to himself by the pressure of Hawke’s hands as they clutched his shoulders like a vise.

“Hawke…” he murmured softly, plaintively. He could feel the uncertainty in their embrace, could feel them both slipping into the frightening chasm between them despite their best efforts, no matter how tightly they tried to hold on. But he could not bring himself to give in to that feeling completely, even if he knew that struggling would cause them both far more pain than just simply letting go.

“We can’t go on like this,” he sighed as Hawke’s beard brushed against his cheek, though he neither let go nor pulled away. Hawke’s lips pressed roughly against the point of his chin, along the line of his jaw, across the side of his ear, down the curve of his neck, and his eyelids fluttered shut as a sharp rush of air escaped his throat.

“I know,” Hawke breathed, hardly missing a beat, dipping his tongue into the hollow at the base of Anders’ neck, nipping at the lines of bone and muscle that curved beneath his skin.

“We should stop.” Anders shivered as Hawke grabbed him roughly around the waist, pressing their bodies together. His fingertips dug into the smooth, muscled flesh over the contours of Hawke’s hips, desperate for a closeness just out of reach.

“We should.” Again, there was no hesitation in Hawke’s voice, and even though he replied in agreement, his arms remained wrapped around Anders’ waist, his mouth still pressed against the hot, rapid pulse that beat beneath the tender flesh at Anders’ tightening throat.


	8. Last Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

The room was quickly filled with heavy, anxious silence, save for a handful of muffled grunts and soft gasps of breath. Hawke eagerly allowed Anders to take the reins from him, surrendering dominance in favor of retreating into the comforting shadows in the recesses of his mind. Surprisingly, Anders obliged him without protest. Fortunately, Anders was also prudent enough to realize that Leandra's room was an entirely inappropriate place for a desperate, frenzied tryst, especially considering Hawke's current mental state. He suggested they return to their own room, his voice warm in Hawke's ear.

Hawke let Anders lead the way, allowed him to take hold of his wrist, to pluck his dead mother's handkerchief from his fingers and set it gingerly on the dresser, to coax him out of the room and down the hallway. Once they had reached the bedroom and closed the door gently behind them, Hawke quickly closed the distance between them, metal and leather and feathers and cloth sliding beneath his fingertips as he tugged and tore at the buckles and straps and flaps of Anders' coat.

Anders gently took hold of Hawke's fumbling hands and pushed them aside, his lips moving to form a soft, indulgent smile as he leaned forward to press a tender kiss to Hawke's mouth. His tongue probed its warmth lightly as his fingers deftly unbuckled, unsnapped, and untied the fastenings on his coat and the laces on his shirt far more quickly and with much more success than Hawke's clumsy attempt had yielded.

The embrace of his soft, cushioned mattress rose up to meet Hawke as he was pushed backward and down onto the bed. He went down still clinging to Anders, wrapping his arms tightly around him and siphoning off as much comfort as he could pull from the intimate warmth of his lover's body. Anders pressed down closer to lean in for another kiss, and as their noses bumped and rough pricks of thick, black beard grated against bits of coarse, dark stubble Hawke had found himself suddenly reliving the first night they'd spent together, sinking back into memories of a similar embrace at a much happier time.

Anders' hands on his neck and chest were just as gentle as they had been back then, but the trepidation and anticipation at exploring a new lover's body were gone, replaced by an almost too-familiar detachment. Hawke reached around to cling to Anders' back and shoulders, but instead of rubbing his palms in comforting circles and caressing invisible lines down the length of Anders' body, his fingers tightened into a fist and grasped and clawed and pinched and held fast, like a vise.

As Hawke's mind raced and spun, Anders pulled back, straddling his hips while his slender, callused fingers tugged at the laces on Hawke's dress shirt. He ran his thumbs along the lines of fine embroidery at the collar, stroking down the expanse of silky fabric until one fingertip brushed against a covered nipple, and Hawke twitched involuntarily at the touch. Anders smiled despite himself at the response, but it was quickly hidden as he dipped his head and pressed his mouth over the hardened nub beneath Hawke's shirt, brushing his lips teasingly across it. A hot, hard sigh escaped Hawke's lips as his body shivered with arousal.

Hawke felt a sudden, strange sense of shame at the fact that he was already hard inside his trousers, and part of him wanted to blame the alcohol, but that was a lie, and he knew it. He was simply desperate for escape and release, and this was the only way he knew how to find what he was searching for, even though every time he and Anders used sex as a substitute for intimacy or communication, what little closeness remained between them crumbled away just a bit more. The barest fragmented foundation of the relationship they had built over the years was all that was left, and even that was cracking under the weight of their mutual guilt and apathy, rapidly fading away with every denied opportunity to try and work things out.

The distance between them had quickly become a bloated, blackened void, and Hawke did not know how to see past or around it anymore.

So he moaned and sighed and gasped softly under Anders' touch, speaking with his body instead of his heart, begging and pleading with a series of shivers and twinges and thrusts instead of the words that stuck heavy and hard in this throat, words that were simply too painful to hear himself speak aloud.

_We can't go on like this._

_We should end it._

Those were the right things to say—he knew it, no matter how painful they might be—and yet, even so, somewhere deep inside Hawke's chest, his bruised and buried heart still selfishly screamed, ' _please don't leave me_.'

He hadn't intended to say that last part out loud.

It was not until a few moments later, when he noticed that Anders had frozen in place and was staring down at him with sad, soft brown eyes and a brow wrinkled hard with worry, that Hawke realized just what he had done.

"Hawke..." Anders breathed his name softly, and the pity that Hawke swore he heard in his voice cut like a knife.

"Nothing. It was nothing, really," Hawke quickly spluttered, turning his head and avoiding Anders' gaze as he lied through his teeth. "You know how I get when I drink too much."

"All right." Anders nodded sagely, forcing himself to humor Hawke's excuse, even though he had told enough lies in his lifetime to know one when he heard it. "You should get some rest, then."

Anders pushed himself up straight and began to slide back and up off Hawke's body, but Hawke quickly shoved himself up on his elbows and grabbed a bit of his shirt sleeve, tugging on it in protest.

"Stay. Please," Hawke whispered, so softly it was nearly inaudible. 

Anders' eyes narrowed. "I don't know if that's a good i—" 

"Just for tonight," Hawke added quickly, his voice close to breaking. " _Please._ "

"Hawke. Love. _Garrett_." Anders sharply punctuated each word and sighed, shifting to sit on his knees beside Hawke and reaching up to brush back a straw-colored lock of hair back from his forehead. "We... _really_ need to talk."

"I know. I know," Hawke replied, his voice catching in his throat and then coming out in a rush. "I do. I will. We will." He looked up at Anders with a gaze that radiated an aura of sad, shattered defeat.

And then, much to his surprise, Anders leaned over and kissed him. His lips were unfailingly gentle, and his hands reached up to cup Hawke's face almost gingerly, as though he feared something precious and fragile between them might break at his touch.

"I'll stay. Tonight," he replied a moment later, when their lips were no longer joined. "Tomorrow, we'll talk."

Hawke swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and nodded wordlessly, reaching a trembling hand out to brush the side of Anders' cheek with his palm. Anders closed his eyes and plucked Hawke's shaking fingers from his face, closing them into a loose fist and squeezing them, turning them over to press his lips to the back of Hawke's hand. There was love and affection in the gesture, real love and affection and not a fabrication or an illusion, and Hawke couldn't remember the last time so simple a gesture had calmed his heart so much. His hand stopped trembling as Anders released him and laid his palm on Hawke's thigh, stroking in gentle circles with the pad of his thumb.

Moments later, a sweet rush of magic from Anders' fingertips filled him—creation magic, Anders' specialty. Even though he was not technically injured, stress and anxiety had taken a toll on him both mentally and physically, and the rush of magical energy Anders sent through him eased his tense body and aching heart. The air around them grew simultaneously warm and cool, both inviting and refreshing, like a light summer breeze, and Anders sagged and slumped against Hawke's shoulder afterward, his eyes still closed.

"I'd promise you every night for the rest of our lives if I could," Anders murmured against the smooth, silky fabric of Hawke's shirt, "but I—"

Hawke quickly silenced him with a kiss.

A little while later, in the quietest hours of deepest darkness before the dawn, Hawke lay quietly curled up on his side, skirting the fine edge between dreams and reality in a drowsy haze, naked in his bed with the coverlet sagging around his waist. A sudden chill shot through him, running so deeply through his blood that he could not seem to shake it despite the heat of Anders' sleeping body pressing against his back and the flames blazing brightly in the fireplace, and he yanked the blankets up to his chin, clinging to its warmth. He could hear Anders breathing, deep and even and heavy as he slept, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. Rolling over to face Anders with his blanket still clutched close, he studied the shadowed contours of his lover's sleeping face, lit orange and gold by the firelight, and finally drifted off into sleep as he tried to commit each line and curve and angle into memory.


	9. The Brightest Light in Kirkwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

Hawke woke just after sunrise, but Anders was already gone.

His side of the bed was empty—still rumpled and mussed, but devoid of warmth. His scent lingered on the sheets, some strange melange of sulfur and elfroot laced with smoke, sweat, and menthol, simultaneously inviting and off-putting. Hawke pressed his cheek against the pillows, plucking at a few stray, broken, straw-and-gold strands of hair that had been caught in the embroidery.

It was not an unexpected absence, nor was it the first, but as Hawke rubbed his thumb along the delicate stitching on Anders' pillows, he tried to convince himself that it could not possibly be the last.

He scarcely left his room for the next few days.

_"Are you sure you won't take something to eat today, Master?"_

_"There's a letter for you on the desk, Messere."_

_"Master, are you sure you wouldn't like your sheets washed?"_

_"One of your friends stopped by to see you, Messere. I told them you were feeling unwell."_ "

_"No, I haven't seen Messere Anders about, now that you mention it. It's been a few days, hasn't it?"_

_*bark*!_

Hawke nearly lost track of time altogether for a while, the hours and days melting into an indistinguishable blur between bouts of restless slumber and long stretches of sleepless melancholy as six years of missteps and mistakes ran back and forth through his head. He tried to drink the water Orana brought him one morning, but it tasted bitter on his tongue, and the apple beside the pitcher had seemed to turn sour after a bite or two. He had spit it back out, and refused meals altogether after that.

He paced the carpet in earnest, stared blankly into the fireplace, and flipped mindlessly through his journal. Several times he sat down to write, quill and inkwell at the ready, but rather than put pen to paper, he simply watched it drip dark blobs of ink across the page. He thought about writing down his feelings, or the events of the last few weeks, but his mind drew a blank, and the idea of his friends barging into his room and flipping through all the things privately tumbling around inside his head in regard to this particular subject made him feel entirely uneasy.

Once, he started writing a letter to Anders. Halfway through, his pen skipped and froze as he wrote the word 'love'. Ink bled and blobbed on the paper, and he slammed the quill back into the inkwell as his chest tightened. He rose from the desk, tearing the page from his journal, crumpling it into a ball as he crossed the room and tossed it into the fireplace. The flames surged and flickered around it, and the paper quickly turned brown, then black, before curling up and disintegrating into a pile of ashes.

It seemed an appropriate metaphor for the state of their relationship, he thought, laughing derisively to himself as he held back bitter tears.

After almost three days of staring at the ceiling and walls and taking little food or actual rest, Hawke tried to make an honest go of it, again. He ate breakfast, much to Orana's delight. He washed and dressed and trimmed his beard. He looked downright presentable by the time evening fell and he went out to meet Varric and Isabela at the Hanged Man.

He nursed a single mug for the duration of the night. He lost at Wicked Grace to Fenris, three times. He got a playful, consolatory kiss from Isabela, and a sweet, indulgent smile from Merrill, along with a small handmade charm that was supposedly 'for good luck'.

No one asked about Anders. Hawke knew they were all just humoring him, but he appreciated it, nonetheless.

It was still early when he coughed up his losses to Fenris and left the Hanged Man with a swig or two of untouched ale sitting in the bottom of his mug.

The sky over Lowtown was just turning dark as he stepped outside, partially obscured by smog and ash from the foundries. Hawke thought about going straight home, but his feet took him elsewhere. He ran his fingers along the rough, soot-covered walls of Lowtown, striding past workers and beggars and refugees as the sun dropped behind them, casting dark orange splashes of light and dark patches of shadow across the city. Pebbles and dirt scratched under the soles of his boots as he walked, kicking out from beneath him to skitter and scatter across the broken stone walkways and into cracks or against walls. Dingy, torn cloth banners billowed and danced in the breeze, tattered remnants of their original, welcoming glory.

Instead of making his way back to Hightown, he traveled in the opposite direction, and made it to the docks just as the moon was rising. The sharp sounds of waves slapping against the loading pier was a steady, looping rhythm in the background as Hawke breathed in the scent of sea and smoke and decaying fish. There were still a few sailors pulling cargo off a ship, desperately trying to finish so that they could go home before it was too late to stop for a drink on the way. Rough voices that barked out orders were carried out toward the sea on the breeze.

He could see the Gallows, standing tall and foreboding and dark in the distance across the water.

The murky, soot-clouded waters around the shipyard were deceptively beautiful at night, the tops of the ripples and waves sparkling as they swayed back and forth under the moonlight. Hawke watched them intently, only dimly aware of the sounds of people moving and shouting in the background—the din barely reached him. He wasn't sure how long he stood there watching the moonlight glittering out across the sea, but when he came back to his senses the docks had gone quiet, save for the shuffling and whispers from the handful of brigands and whores that made their living in the night.

He looked up at the Gallows once more, wondering. He had only ever seen it from the outside, but Anders had seen it from within, up close, firsthand, and had related some of the things he had seen there. The few things Hawke had heard about were enough to start his stomach twisting into knots, and send sickening shivers down his spine. The thought of Bethany being trapped inside that place was more than he could bear. Perhaps she was in a better place, now. He had to tell himself that, to find some way to believe it.

And then, he thought about Anders, who had returned to the place time and time again, looking for those he could save... all while Hawke was rubbing elbows with Hightown's elite, drinking with his friends at the Hanged Man, or sitting at home in his comfortable estate, brooding over his own misfortune.

_We can't all be heroes..._ he thought sadly to himself as regret crept coldly through his veins.

He had made so many promises over the years, and almost as if fate had delighted in watching it happen, one by one he had broken nearly every single one. He had promised to take care of the family, to protect his siblings, to make a good life for them. He had promised to protect Bethany and his mother, and yet he'd felt both of their lives slip away in his arms. He had believed in both Anders' cause and the man himself, once, but somehow now even that had begun to fade. He had promised to help Anders, and he had tried his best for nigh on three years... but now, he simply felt powerless.

And Anders really didn't need him anymore.

Truthfully, he didn't need Anders, either. He _wanted_ him, yes, _loved_ him, yes... but his continued presence was only hurting them both. There was no peace or solace in their embraces, only desperation and loneliness, and somewhere along the line that had become too little to sustain them. Their inability to refuse one another had become codependence over time, and now he simply felt trapped, and it was difficult to say what he feared losing more—Anders, or himself.

But the path of ignorance and avoidance that they were on was only really delaying the inevitable.

The warm sea breeze had grown cold by the time Hawke turned his back to the sea and began the trek back up to Hightown, but he made no stops along the way and was home before he knew it.

Hawke's cheeks flushed with warmth as he stepped inside his own familiar hallway, not bothering to shed his coat or boots before heading straight to his room. He was tired from thinking too much, and his heart was dragging him down, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep the pain away.

His pulse jumped when he saw a light on in the den, and he paused in the doorway as he passed by. Anders was home, absorbed in thought, hunched over a parchment at the desk with a quill in his hand. He took no notice of Hawke in the doorway, not even when he rapped gently on the door frame. Hawke opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind before he could actually think of something to say, and silently turned away, continuing down the hallway to seek refuge in his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Back in the den, Anders shot up with a start, nearly knocking over the inkwell. He pushed himself slowly back from the desk, replacing the pen before blotting his ink and sighing softly. Once it was dry, he rolled up the paper and tucked it into his robes, steadying himself with a thick, deep breath before making his way down the hallway.

The fireplace in Hawke's room was down to little more than glowing embers, but he hardly noticed. He roughly kicked out of his boots and pulled off his jacket, nearly tearing a button loop in the process. The discarded boots were left as they fell, the jacket tossed carelessly over a chair before Hawke threw himself into his still-unmade bed. He vaguely recalled telling Orana and Bodahn to take the night off when he'd gone out earlier, and apparently they had actually listened to him for once. Still dressed in his shirt and pants and not really caring at all, he burrowed himself into the blankets and stared up at the ceiling.

_And now it's come to this..._ he sighed softly to himself as the events of the previous week played itself out inside his head, and the fireplace quietly burned itself out.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Anders stood at the door for an uncomfortably long time, his hand frozen in midair, poised to knock. He strained his ears, listening for any signs of movement on the other side of the door, but was met only with unsettling silence. The dog whimpered softly at his feet, bumping up against his booted legs.

He let his hand drop to his side without knocking, and gently pushed the door open without a word.

The room was dark and cold, but light flooded in from the hallway behind him, and Anders could see that Hawke was there, on his bed, curled up in blankets. The dog padded in ahead of him and curled up into a ball at the foot of the bed, panting softly.

"Hawke?" Anders began, knowing he couldn't possibly be asleep already. He stepped further into the room, and the door closed behind him, cloaking the room in shadows. "I'm... sorry I left the other day. Something important came up, and I didn't want to wake y—"

"I'm sure you had a good excuse," Hawke replied, pushing himself up to a sitting position. His voice was flat, but not bitter.

"It's not an—" Anders paused as he nearly tripped over one of Hawke's discarded boots. He cleared his throat and righted himself, shoving the boots out of the way with his foot. "It's not an excuse."

"Of course it is." Hawke's voice was still flat, nearly emotionless. "But I understand. I wouldn't want to stick around me, either."

Anders' brow narrowed in confusion and concern, and he bit down against the protest that bubbled up behind his lips. He stopped at the side of Hawke's bed and carefully set himself down on the mattress beside him. He opened his mouth to say something, but Hawke spoke first.

"We've both been making excuses. A lot of them. For a very long time."

Anders closed his mouth and held his breath, slowly nodding his assent. As much as it hurt to admit, Hawke was right.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me, Anders." Hawke tried to force a smile, but simply couldn't do it. His breath caught in his throat, swelled into a lump, and stuck there. "You tried. We both did."

"I never meant to hurt you."

"I know."

"I didn't want this for us... for it to end like this."

"I know."

"I still love you." The hurt in Anders' voice was palpable.

"I know," Hawke replied, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

Anders reached out and stroked his chin, nudging Hawke's face up to look into his eyes. "I'm glad we had what we did."

Hawke swallowed against the lump in his throat and managed the barest hint of a nod. "You should go."

Anders paused with his mouth half-open before nodding in silent affirmation, though he lingered for a moment with his fingertips at Hawke's jaw. Against his better judgement he dipped his head, but before their lips could meet, Hawke's body snapped taut, and Anders immediately froze and reluctantly pulled away, letting his hand drop before pushing himself up and off the bed.

"I know you don't want an apology, but... I _am_ sorry." he paused and drew a breath. "Please don't hate me for failing."

"Never," Hawke promised.

"I... don't know when we'll see each other again. Some... important things have changed." Anders paused, trying to decide exactly how much he should or could say. He finally decided that there was nothing left to lose. "This is probably the last thing you want to hear, but, maybe you'll understand. The resistance group I've been working with—the mage underground... I've been trying to get in touch with my contacts, but It's gone. That's why I left so suddenly the other day." He paused again, checking to see if Hawke was following what he was saying.

Hawke was still with him, his eyes tired, but intent.

"I'm the only one left, Hawke. The rest have all been slaughtered, or imprisoned... or turned to blood magic out of desperation. Meredith's as good as won."

"I'm sorry, Anders. I... know how much it meant to you." It was a kind lie—Hawke knew he could never fully understand, but it was all he was capable of saying.

"Perhaps this really is for the best," Anders whispered softly. "Everything is winding down. It's really only a matter of time before I—"

"It is," Hawke agreed, a little too quickly. The thought of Anders talking about dying was just too much for him to bear at that moment.

Anders nodded and turned to leave, but before he could reach the door, Hawke called out for him to wait. He almost ignored the plea, afraid that he would lose his courage if he stopped putting one foot in front of the other, even for a moment, but he gave in to a moment of weakness, and stopped. By the time he turned around, Hawke had pushed himself off the bed and rushed up to meet him, and was expectantly holding something out in his hand.

A small, shiny key.

A bemused expression crept across Anders' face as he stared back at Hawke.

"Take it. Please."

Anders reached out and did so without protest, still waiting patiently for some kind of explanation.

"It opens the cellars below the estate. They're not far from your clinic. Just in case... something happens. In case you need to make a quick escape."

Before he could convince himself that it was a terrible idea, Anders stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Hawke in as tight a hug as he could manage. To his surprise, Hawke hugged him back just as tightly. There was desperation and pain in the embrace, but also, most importantly, forgiveness, and resolve. When they finally parted and stepped back, Anders turned away to reluctantly brush away several unbidden tears.

"I will keep it close," he promised, wiping damp fingertips against the fabric of his coat.

They walked to the door together side by side, not touching. Hawke held it open as Anders passed through, turning to look at him one last time. It took every ounce of strength inside him not to reach out and pull Anders back.

"You always were the brightest light in Kirkwall," Anders said, forcing a smile, "and you always will be."


End file.
